He intended to say she’s just a case; instead, it emerged as “She’s changed.”
Tag and Tram exchanged troubled glances, and Rio could almost hear the groan travel between them.
“Riiiiiight,” Tag drawled, the word brimming with doubt.
“If you say so,” Tram added, his face deadpan yet broadcasting skepticism.
Rio backtracked. “She’s just a case. I haven’t seen her in over a decade. I’m not nursing any lingering feelings for her. I’m doing my job. Now are you two clowns going to help me or not?”
“Well fuck.” Tag rolled his shoulders and eyes in unison. “Since you asked so nicely…”
“Sure, why not.” Tram landed a playful blow to Rio’s shoulder.
Rio knew for a fact that Tram had pulled the punch, but it still felt like the hit had drilled through bone and flesh and buried itself in his scapula. He barely caught himself before massaging the burning spot. Christ, wouldn’t that rain all kinds of wussy nicknames down on his sorry ass.
“So, she’s just a case?” Tram asked, turning toward the curtained-off cubicle.
“That’s right.” Rio forced absolute certainty into the claim. Too bad he couldn’t rustle up the same degree of certainty down deep… where it counted.
Chapter Seven
Becca smiled brightly at Rio’s two friends. They sat side by side at the foot of her hospital bed. Tweedledee and Tweedledum, waiting patiently on their steel thrones for Rio’s return.
They looked so similar they could have been brothers, although Rio claimed they weren’t. They were the same height, had the same wide shoulders and brown hair, even the same hard faces and watchful gazes. The only thing that set them apart was the color of their eyes. One had blue. One had brown. But she couldn’t remember which had which.
What she did know, with absolute certainty, was that they didn’t like her. Why that knowledge sat warm and fluffy inside her and made her want to giggle, well, that probably had something to do with the glorious drugs coursing through her veins.
Lovely, lovely drugs.
No pain. No fear. Nothing could dent her contentment with those wonderful drugs fizzing along in her bloodstream.
She smiled happily at Dee and Dum again. “How come you don’t like me?”
The two men exchanged cautious looks, but brown eyes was the one to shrug. He rubbed a finger along the top of his eyebrow. “We don’t know you, so nothing to dislike.”
“Liar, liar, pants on fire, couldn’t jump over the telephone wire.” She stopped singing to stare up at the moon. The beautiful, incandescent moon. “Oh wow! Wow! Isn’t it pretty?”
Both men looked up. “What?”
She wasn’t sure which of them asked the question. But then it didn’t matter. “The moon, silly. It’s come to visit me. Isn’t it pretty?”
“That’s the overhead light,” one of the Tweedle duo said and added dryly, “She’s stoned out of her gourd.”
“No shit.” Amusement softened the other voice.
“I am not!” Becca beamed at them, her happiness a warm, fuzzy blanket comforting her from the inside out. “My mom used to sing to the moon. That’s why it came to visit. It wants me to sing to it too.” She cleared her throat. “Aye, I see the moon and the moon sees me. She be smilin’ through the window on me precious baby.” Becca belted the lyrics out, regardless of the masculine wincing going on at the foot of the bed, only to stop and frown in consternation. “I don’t remember the rest.”
“That’s okay. You just rest,” blue eyes said, unfurling himself from the chair to stretch.
“You know I’ve been shot, right?” At the murmurs of agreement, she shimmied her shoulders in contentment. “That’s settled then.” She tried to dust off her hands, but her palms missed by at least a hundred miles.
“What’s settled?” Blue eyes asked, ambling closer to the bed.
“That you like me now.” She nodded emphatically. “Because I’ve been shot. Plus I’m very likable. Ask anyone; they’ll all tell you how likable I am.”
“Will they now?”
She’d gone back to gazing up at the moon, so she wasn’t sure who’d responded.
“That’s right. Everyone likes me.” Dragging her attention from the glowing orb above, she paused to frown and count off on her fingers. “Well, except for Lena and Adam and Rio—but everyone else.”
“Well, Rio did love you,” a husky male voice tinged with accusation said. “And you did break his heart.”
“Love me?” Becca laughed, but sadness suddenly tugged at her. She sighed and snuggled down in the bed. “He never loved me. He couldn’t have. If he’d loved me, he wouldn’t have believed them. He wouldn’t have left me there. He would have known something was wrong.”
“Something was wrong?” The husky voice sharpened slightly, following her down the tunnel of ancient grief. “What was wrong?”
“At the party,” she mumbled, batting the voice away. “If he’d loved me, he would have known I wouldn’t cheat on him. He would have known they’d drugged me. If he’d loved me, he would have rescued me… but he left… he left me there all alone.”
Voices buzzed in the distance, but sleep rolled up and over her, drowning them out.
An eon later, Becca clawed her way to consciousness, buoyed by the fiery pain in her shoulder and the urgent need to pee. The urge to pee brought her straight up in bed, and she swung her legs over the side. The scorching disapproval of her shoulder almost laid her flat again.
“Hold your horses there,” a raspy voice mumbled from the foot of the bed as she cautiously slid to the floor. “Where do you think you’re going?”
The voice was masculine. Sexy. But not Rio. It must belong to one of the men Rio had introduced as her new bodyguards before he’d abandoned her in favor of his precious police work.
Okay… that sounded way too bitchy. She justified the silent cattiness by the fact she really needed to pee. Like a category five kind of pee.
“How about you climb back in bed,” the man with the sexy, husky voice and blue eyes said.
“How about you help me to the restroom before I pee all over the floor,” she countered.
“I’ll get the nurse.” With a sweep of his broad hand, the curtain flew back.
There was no way she was waiting for the nurse. Not when standing upright had brought gravity into play and her bladder was about to burst. She shifted until she could grab the wheeled IV stand with her left hand. Her right shoulder was heavily bandaged and the arm locked to her chest in an intricate sling. Slowly she shuffled forward, dragging the IV stand along like a crutch.
A horde of nurses descended on her before she reached the fabric curtain.
“I see you’re feeling livelier,” a vaguely familiar woman in green scrubs said. “How’s the pain?”
First things first. “Where’s the bathroom?”
“Across the hall. Do you think you can make it, or should I bring a bedpan?”
From the urgent swell in her bladder, she suspected she’d fill a bedpan lickety-split. “I’ll make it.”
It was a pledge born of grim desperation and one she barely managed to keep. Five minutes later, she opened the door to the restroom, feeling a million pounds lighter and a whole lot relieved.
The relief lasted until the tall, brown-haired guy with endless shoulders and vigilant blue eyes stepped away from the wall. Rio had told her his name. Brett Taggart. The other one was Lucas Trammel. Tag and Tram to their friends, which she wasn’t. It had been painfully obvious, from the moment they shook her hand, that they didn’t like her. They didn’t even know her, but they didn’t like her.
Gee… wonder where the dislike originated. She silently snorted in disgust. What exactly had Rio told them about her anyway?
Not that it mattered. As soon as she got ahold of Detective Wilbanks, he could find her a couple of qualified and reliable bodyguards. Rio’s two biased SEAL buddies could go back to terrifying terrorists.
She shuffled toward her bed, holding on to the IV stand, her shoulder throbbing a little worse with each step. It had been easy to ignore the pain on the way to the restroom, but without the bladder distraction, the pain seemed to swell. The pain meds must be wearing off.
“What time is it?” she asked the nurse who’d accompanied her into the bathroom, keenly aware that ole blue eyes had fallen into step beside them.
“Just after midnight. As soon as you’re settled, I’ll get you another dose of pain meds,” the nurse said, her hands partially raised as though to ward off any stumbling.
Midnight? She’d slept for over six hours. Rio must know something by now. Where was he anyway? Had he gone to bed and left his buddies to watch over her? That didn’t sound very policeman-like.
“Brett, isn’t it?” Becca kept her eyes on her feet, watching them shuffle forward one small step at a time. It was amazing how disconnected her head felt from her body. Maybe the drugs were still affecting her. Or maybe being shot just messed with one’s equilibrium. “Has Rio contacted you? Did he find the person who shot me?”
Or the person who tried to run me over…
“Not yet, but he will,” blue eyes said, his voice quiet yet confident.
Becca focused harder on her feet, fighting back disappointment. What had she expected? It was highly unlikely the shooter would stick around and wait to get caught. But man, she wished this threat to her life was over.
“Don’t worry,” her bodyguard offered, his voice dropping to a soothing rumble. “We won’t let anything happen to you. You’re safe.”
“I know.” The effort of climbing back into bed stole the breath from her lungs and words from her mind, so she waited to continue until she’d settled back against the pillows and swallowed the two pills the nurse gave her. Once she could form words again, she sighed and smiled politely at her two bodyguards. Blue eyes had joined brown eyes at the foot of her bed. It looked like she had a pair of guardian angels—who disliked her—whether she wanted them or not. “I appreciate you two stepping in like this. Of course I’ll pay you for your time.”
The two men exchanged glances, and then blue eyes fixed his stunning azure gaze on her face. “No need for that. We owe Rio a favor.”
What kind of a favor? But she bit the question back. None of her business.
“Well, you don’t owe me any favors, and I’m the one you’re losing sleep over, so expect to be paid.” She filled her tone with finality, indicating the matter was closed.
From the two pairs of raised eyebrows and amused faces, she suspected they weren’t putting much stock in her decisiveness.
Well, damn.
Where was Rio anyway? He could at least keep her informed about what was going on. She was the one who’d been shot after all. Shouldn’t being the shootee come with privileges? Like updates and attentiveness. Maybe back rubs and kisses.
She smiled wistfully as she sank into dreamland, knowing the kisses were a thing of the past.
The morning after the wild ride to the emergency room with Becca bleeding all over his passenger seat, Rio parked the Crown Victoria in the circular driveway to the right of Château Fontaine’s massive front pillars. The mansion sat on the hills overlooking Old Town and had been the family estate of the Harts for as long as Rio remembered.
Constructed from Jerusalem limestone, with gleaming Palladian windows, the house boasted alcoves, towers, and octagonal turrets. Among the oldest of the Mission Hills structures, the villa had been in the Fontaine family for generations. Lena’s grandmother, the grande dame of the family—and heiress to a vast empire of real estate holdings—had gifted the mansion to Lena and Aaron Hart as a wedding present.
Rumor had it the Fontaine fortune had paved the way for Aaron Hart’s political career and bought him the mayorship of San Diego.
Had it paid to cover up Rachel Blaine’s murder too?
Or Rebecca Blaine’s attempted murder?
While he couldn’t see Lena or Adele wielding the rifle or the truck that had tried to run Becca down, they certainly had the means to hire someone to wipe Becca from the planet. And then there was Adam… who had both the military background and the temperament to take matters into his own hands and make use of that rifle.
He glanced at his watch as he closed the door to his car. He’d stopped by the ER around dawn to check on Becca, only to find her asleep. Tag had been out getting coffee, but Tram had reported a quiet night. No suspicious activity. No drama.
Becca was doing well and a model patient. In the past, her A-plus report card would have surprised him… but he barely raised an eyebrow regarding Becca 2.0. This new Becca had some serious mettle and fortitude.
Her doctor had given him an early afternoon checkout timeframe, which meant he had a couple of hours—give or take. Plenty of time to interview Becca’s family and still stop by the pharmacy to pick up her prescriptions, before returning to the clinic and ferrying her somewhere safe.
Someplace her enemy wouldn’t be able to locate with a couple of phone calls. Someplace that wasn’t connected to him. Luckily Tram had an idea and was setting up a safe haven, which gave Rio time to conduct this interview with Becca’s stepmother.
A demure woman with her graying hair collected in a bun, donned in black trousers and an ivory blouse, answered the front bell. He didn’t recognize her, but then it had been six years since he’d been out here last, which had been for the reception following Aaron Hart’s funeral. He followed the housekeeper through the stained glass double entryway, across the travertine-tiled foyer with its grand circular staircase, and into a sitting room on the right. The floor here was wood parquet in an angular pattern and polished to a high gloss. His footsteps rang out, echoing through the room, as he closed on Adele and Lena. The women were seated at the back of the room, beneath one of the bay windows.
His hostesses, their blond hair short and straight, rose from the high-backed antique couch. Swaths of papers, booklets, and brochures were strewn between them and across the claw-footed rectangular table in front.
“Rio!” Lena Hart headed toward him, the heels of her pumps clicking against the wood floor. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Other than her hair looking shorter and more silver, she hadn’t changed much. Same average height and thin build. Same smooth skin. Same classically styled apparel, this time in pastel slacks and blouse. He caught a whiff of a subtly expensive perfume as he reached for her perfectly manicured, outstretched fingers.
“Lena.” He took her hand, gave it a quick shake, and let it go.
The irritated press of her lips as she slowly lowered her arm told him she’d anticipated more. Perhaps she’d expected him to brush his lips against her knuckles, like she was the queen and he the supplicant. God knew the woman loved playing the part of local royalty.
It still surprised him that the imperial woman before him and his grandmother had been such good friends. Other than religion, the only thing the two women had had in common had been their regal bearings. Everything else, from their socioeconomic status to their addresses, had been wildly divergent. To give Lena credit, his grandmother’s lack of education and money had never appeared to bother her. Nor had it stopped her from wanting to merge their two families.
But then Aaron Hart hadn’t come from money or status either. He’d been ambitious and smart though. Maybe that was what Lena valued the most.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Lena asked, her tone noticeably cooler.
“Police business,” Rio offered blandly. “Where were you yesterday evening around five p.m.?”
“Why that sounds like an accusation.” She raised perfectly arched eyebrows, her blue eyes growing chillier by the second.
“What’s going on, Rio?” Adele asked. She cast her mother a nervous glance as she eased around the coffee table.
Rio glanced between the two women. “Someone took a couple of shots at Rebecca Blaine yesterday evening. I need to know where you two were and whether anyo
ne can verify your whereabouts.”
“Oh my God!” Adele’s voice rose shrilly. “Is she all right?”
Rio studied Adele’s horrified face. She looked honestly stunned and shaken by the news. He turned back to Lena, scanning her cool features. Becca’s stepmother looked more annoyed than concerned.
“Don’t be a fool.” Lena directed a quelling look at her daughter. “I’m sure Rebecca is fine. God knows the girl always lands on her feet.” She turned back to Rio and crossed her arms, eyeing him with dismissal. “And who told you someone tried to shoot her? Rebecca? Does she have proof?”
What, exactly, was the woman implying? That Becca had made the shooting up? An image of Becca’s ashen face, stoic pain, and blood-soaked blouse flashed through his mind. His stomach soured and tightened.
“There’s plenty of proof. Rifle casings. Eyewitness accounts,” he said tightly. “Trust me. The incident happened. I was on scene at the time.”
“Indeed.” Lena scoffed lightly, her gaze as cold and sharp as an icicle. “Casings? As in plural? But the shooter missed? How convenient. Have you checked into whether she set the shooting up herself?”
“Mother!” Adele choked the words out. “What a horrible thing to say.”
“Try not to be such a Pollyanna, Adele.” Lena rounded on her daughter, her voice sharpening. “You’re far too trusting for your own good. That girl has been nothing but trouble from day one. Don’t you find it just a wee bit suspicious that we don’t hear from her in years, only to have her show up now, spewing these wild accusations, mere days before your wedding to Preston?”
“Your concern for her is touching,” Rio ground out through his teeth.
This is what Becca had grown up with? Hell.
She’d complained back in the day that Lena hated her, but Rio had brushed aside her grievances as another example of her habitual dramatization of everything. But Lena’s verbal assassination on Rebecca’s character was antagonistic as hell.
“You said she was fine,” Lena snapped. “And it would be just like the little troublemaker to try to disrupt the wedding. She’s always been jealous of Adele. Indeed, I should have expected something like this.”
Loyalty Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 3) Page 8